We had some company last week, including my niece Lennea (3.5) and her brother Lewis (2.5). One day I had them help me pick some dandelions for the rabbit and our volunteer gourds (for me). As we were walking past piles of scrap metal; piles of wood either being used for or disgarded from the shop; the pockmarked and rutted lawn; etc, Lennea asks me very cheerfully, "Why's your house so broken, Aunt Christina?"
Why indeed?
I told her it was so broken so we could fix it. Which leads me to wonder, which came first: the desire to fix or the brokenness?
-christina
ETA: When I relayed this story to Troy he said, "It's not broken; it's just showing its parts." Clever boy, my Troy.
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